Games You Don't Wanna Play
by Marvelicious
Summary: So maybe he can't always tell what's real, or when the cutting's getting out of hand - but after an eternity in the pit there's only one angel Sam can rely on. Self-harm, masturbation, abusive relationship/brainwashing, torture


Lucifer kicked his feet up onto the table opposite Sam, who did his best to ignore the all-too-common intrusion. "How's research going Sammy?"

Sam gritted his teeth and stared resolutely down at the laptop screen. Maybe someday, if he simply refused to acknowledge him, Lucifer would get tired of it and leave him alone. He dug his nails into the palm of his hand, but the pain from that was so dull by this point – he was so used to it – that it did nothing to rid him of Lucifer's invasive presence.

The razor was starting to look like a more and more appealing option, and Sam hated himself a little bit for even thinking it.

"Aww, don't be like that baby." Lucifer just chuckled, still not phased in the least. He grinned at Sam from across the table, eyeing where the sleeve of his shirt covered up the lines of scars, some still raw and tender, others faded to dull pink lines.

What would Dean say, how would he react? That was the usual mantra Sam clung to in times like these (_Stone number one, and build on it Sammy – you've got to_.) but Lucifer knew that too.

When he snuck a peek out of the corner of his eye at Dean, still passed out on the bed and sleeping off another bender, Sam knew that Lucifer noticed. He always did.

"Sleeping Beauty's out cold," Lucifer assured him, looking slightly more interested now that things were moving in the direction he wanted them, "You gonna do it Sam? Just one more, one little cut. He'll never notice."

"Stop," It was already too much of a plea, Sam's breathing coming much too fast as he tried to fight Lucifer's corrupting influence. He tried to ignore how much he wanted it, how easy it would be, how much he needed some fucking respite.

But then again, Lucifer wasn't about to have that.

"You want it Sammy; you want it bad. Think I can't see the way your eyes get all big, the way you sump against the sink like it's so fucking good you can barely be bothered with the rest of your body? Just imagine how good it'll be: sharp little spark of pain, like a hit of ecstasy coursing through your veins, isn't it?"

"Shut. Up." He had his fists balled up against the table, preparing his usual defense. Ignore. Deny. When all else fails, deny some more. Token protest to keep himself under Dean's definition of sane.

"Like it's better than fucking sex."

Ignoring him.

"You know how this goes," Lucifer pointed out before moving to kneel in front of him, lifting Sam's chin in a gesture that never grew more familiar, or less surprising. "Relax. We'll make it good for you baby." His eyes sparkled with their shared secret, daring Sam to tell him otherwise.

And really, Sam should tell Dean – should wake his brother up and tell him that Lucifer's getting to him, what he's been doing to himself – but at the same time, "Dean's got enough problems of his own right now," Lucifer was always sure to remind him, casting a sorrowful look towards the sprawling form that was always perfectly tragic and perfectly acted. "He doesn't need to hear about your issues. And do you really want to let him down again?

"You know he's just going to look at you the same way he always does, and you know it. Fucking pity, Sammy." Lucifer would tell him as he grabbed Sam's hand, tugging him to his feet, helping to steady him again.

They were on level then. "You don't deserve his pity," The angel assured him viciously. "Better not tell. You can deal with it, can't you?"

"Just one more," Sam found himself trying to bargain, letting Lucifer lead him by the hand into the cramped motel bathroom, his pocketknife heavier than the fucking Titanic in his pocket.

"And that's it," Lucifer finished for him easily, the door swinging shut behind them. He shoved Sam up against the counter, wrenching up his sleeve. "Wanna know how many times you've said that baby?" Sam didn't have to look, but he couldn't bring his eyes away as Lucifer walked his fingers up over the ridges on his skin. "Here's my count,"

It was dizzying. When had he ever done so much? It had been just that once in Tulsa, and then only one more time in Hauppauge when he'd really needed it. But then, there might have been another time after that, but surely, _that _had been the last one.

"What have you done to me?" He whispered, trying to see it in Lucifer's ice-blue eyes. It didn't really matter that he was dangerously close to begging again.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "It's so cute how you say that every time. Give yourself some credit now Sammy," He ran his fingers over Sam's arm again, gentle enough that the newer ones didn't even protest at his touch. "I think they're beautiful; almost like how I carved you up for me in the pit. You were so beautiful, but then, you've always been beautiful to me."

He's so sincere; the closest thing to affection Sam has had in years and years – millennia really – so it's not like he can help leaning into Lucifer's reassurances, even if he can't bring himself to say anything vocally.

The angel moves in and wraps his arms around Sam, one hand coming to cover Sam's on top of the counter before urging him to open himself up. When he does, it's only natural for Lucifer to press the smooth, equally reassuring shape of his folded up knife into Sam's palm.

"You need this now Sammy; you forget how well I know you – Inside and out – you know what to do."

"Why?" Sam finally thinks to ask, watching the blade glint, hungry for blood from the second he flicks it open. He doesn't think he's asked that before, appeals to Lucifer when he looks up with the feeling that maybe his chest is in a vice.

"You want to get better, don't you? What are you going to do when I finally leave?"

For a second, the thought is so terrifying that Sam can't breathe. He simply doesn't even remember how.

How to breathe, that is, but it's the same way how he doesn't even remember what it was like before Lucifer, or what it'd be like to live without him. The thought alone seems impossible. Sure, the pain gives him an escape, some privacy for once, but Lucifer always comes iback/i.

"No, you can't leave me." He feels selfish, needy, demanding it, but how else is he supposed to deal with his brother and all these other strangers walking around on this insubstantial dream? It's easy to sit there and research, reading stories about people long dead, who didn't last a tenth of the time he's spent with Lucifer in the cage.

No matter what Dean says, that's what's real, and Sam knows it.

"You know how to come back with me," Lucifer offers, two fingers lingering over the pulse point in Sam's wrist for that split second.

It's not the first time Lucifer's made that offer, but it's also not the first time that Sam hasn't taken him up on it. His heart leaps in his chest just thinking about it, and he can't follow through – and somehow he feels too guilty to leave the poor shadow of his brother behind here in this wasteland.

"It'd be beautiful," He suggests, leaning in to kiss delicately up the line of Sam's neck, "No more confusion, no more fear, no more pain. Well, only the good kinds." He punctures it with a bite, and Sam can't help the whimper that slips from him, arching up into Lucifer's arms.

"Remember the dirty things we did together?" The angel asks in a growl that sends shivers up and down his spine, "The things that ruined you for this place? Remember when I held your precious little heart in my hands and tasted your love for myself?"

"Y-yes," Sam whispers back, because he does. He remembers every bit of it.

He remembers how patient Lucifer was at the beginning, how he explained over and over again that everything he was doing was for Sam's benefit until Sam was able to realize it too. Long, long hours stretched out on his rack, Lucifer's blades flaying him open to make him whole and perfect again.

He'd struggled at first, been such a disappointment, but it hadn't taken long for Lucifer to put Sam exactly where he belonged. "I'm only doing this because I love you," "I want you to be happy here," He repeated, but the best had been his simple declarations of love over Sam's screams, invading every sense he had and echoing through the darkness for eternity.

"_No, stop! Dean!" Sam cried out, tears streaming down his face as the devil thrust yet another gleaming blade into his chest. "Help!"_

"_Relax," Lucifer said simply while stroking Sam's hair, the blood on his fingers enough to keep it slicked back. "Embrace the pain."_

"_No!" He squirmed on the rack, feeling his own blood pumping out hotly, soaking him through. White-hot pain engulfed him, so sharp and all-consuming that Sam wouldn't have been able to pinpoint its source if he'd tried. It was too much in too many ways, and then all the signals were crossing as he choked on his own blood._

"_Feel it Sammy?" Ecstasy like nothing he'd ever felt, just as bright as the suddenly absent pain. Sam couldn't even open his mouth to speak. "You're so beautiful like this, so open for me – you have no idea. No one's ever loved you more than I have baby; just think how happy it makes me to show you this."_

Years and years and years, until there was no more room for doubt, because Lucifer had taken him apart and shown him its absence so many times.

The angel had known Sam was in love with him long before Sam had known it himself.

"That's right," Lucifer brings him back gently from the memories, "Don't you want to feel like that again Sammy?" He glances down at the shimmering knife in Sam's hand to remind him, because this, this is why they're even here. Because Sam needs to remember, and he needs to forget, and he needs to play hard-to-get for a little bit because he needs to feel alive and try to walk the tightrope that that entails for just a bit longer.

"Gonna do it for me? Think of us when you feel the kiss of the blade on your arm?" He holds Sam close to his side, guiding the knife for him with a practiced touch. "Baby cut for me,"

And Sam doesn't even know why he always hesitates still; that split second flicker of fear and doubt overtaking him that suddenly makes Lucifer's arms seem as cold as ice. _Is this really what you want? What about Dean? What about the normal fucking apple-pie life that you were always supposed to have? Aren't you ashamed it's – you've – come to this?_

It burns like acid in his gut, and for a moment he is ashamed, hating the scars that stand out in sharp relief against his arm and every single thing they stand for. The pain. The confusion. Dean. Lucifer.

He follows through though: touches the blade to his arm, presses down until he can feel the pinch of skin as he drags it across his arm. Blood beads to the surface around the knife, small smears of red following its path.

"That's it," Lucifer assures him, a soothing hand slipping down Sam's spine until it dips much lower than could be considered sympathetic in any way. He sighs, dropping an open-mouthed kiss against Sam's collar bone, and Sam's distracted from the blooming pain for a moment.

It hits all at once, and it's like fire spreading through his veins – racing up his arm from the cut and seeping into his skin from beneath Lucifer's teeth. Sam gasps, letting his head fall back against Lucifer's shoulder as the angel's hands wander further, deft fingers slipping into the back of his jeans on one side and ghosting over the cut on the other.

"Mmm, Sammy, wanna taste?" Lucifer moans, sucking the fingers streaked with Sam's blood into his mouth, tongue flicking out against them obscenely like he knows exactly what it does to Sam – because of course he does. He twists around so he's boxing Sam in against the counter, straddles his thigh without a second's pause.

The sensation of him is fading now though, his outline a little less sharp against the cream colored tiles behind him. Pain lances up Sam's arm again in another wave and Lucifer flickers briefly out of existence.

He's almost terrified to see the angel go.

"Same time tomorrow?" Lucifer teases. He leans in to capture Sam's lips in one last, heartbreaking kiss: rough and needy before he bites down on Sam's lower lip and vanishes – just like that.

Sam is left clutching the bathroom counter, staring dazedly at the tiles set into the wall across from him, blood trickling down his arm and pooling in his groin at the same time. He bends his head to lick at the cut, closing his eyes to savor the tangy, metallic taste and trying to pretend that he can still feel Lucifer there.

His imaginary Lucifer unbuttons his jeans along with Sam, uncharacteristically gentle as he frees Sam's cock from their confines. The angel smirks up at him, slipping down onto his knees, and Sam automatically spreads his legs a bit wider, adjusting his position against the counter. He dares another quick lick of the gash in his arm as Lucifer takes him into his mouth, the flavors nearly explosive in his mouth.

_Remember when?_ Lucifer's voice whispers in Sam's mind, familiar as the scrape of his claws against Sam's skin. And yes, Sam does remember when. He can never forget the amazing blowjobs, back when he was still horrified by his body's reactions. Lucifer was rough with them like absolutely everything else and never ceased to get Sam off, humiliating him for his pleasure every time.

His thumbnail feels almost enough like Lucifer's teeth when Sam squeezes himself, driving it into the skin right below the soft head where Lucifer would always threaten to bite. Sometimes he'd follow up; Sam shivers with the thought of it, working his shaft so it tips the border between pain and pleasure over and over again. Like it's fucking going out of style.

He comes with a shout before remembering to bite down on his bloody arm because Dean's right there in the room, and what if he hears? He'd be pissed off, or afraid, or suspicious to hear Sam call out for Lucifer – some unpleasant emotion that darkens his features every time the angel's name, or Sam's time in hell comes close to being mentioned.

The same way he acts when he knows that Sam's keeping secrets.

Sam washes his hands clean, zips up and gets himself presentable. The cut's bleeding only sluggishly at this point. He bandages it up in a hurry, tugs his sleeve back down with a furtive look towards the door.

Dean would grill him over it, would insist that there's something wrong with him. He'd want to get Sam "help", make him talk it out, or whatever the heck he's supposed to do. But it's just because he can't understand, because he wasn't there, and he has no idea what it was like. As much as it hurts, and as uneasy as it feels not to be able to talk to his brother…

He doesn't know Lucifer the way Sam does.

And so Dean doesn't have to know.


End file.
